Echolocation
by Jazyrha
Summary: Don't leave me, leave me, leave me, the walls echoed coldly. /A Bruce Wayne story/


**Summary: ** Don't leave me, leave me, leave me, the walls echo coldly.  
**Warning: **contains elements of Batman: Gotham Knight. What you should know is that Bruce during his journey to find a way 'to ease his pain', he volunteers to become a doctor in a country during a civil war. A rather long character study. Contains some blood and gore.

**Echolocation.**

Inside the darkness of a cave, there lies a tiny child, so young his fear is still a foreign feeling, still a painfully new concept. There are shadows all around him, darkness like he has never seen. Crushed underneath gravity's law.

(Daddy. I'm scared, scared, scared.)

Their wings are dark and leathery. Their claws are sharp and cold. Their shrieks are high and painful. His little arms wail around, but this child is so small, so unable to save himself.

(Daddy. Please save me, save me, save me.)

His screams echo against the rocks. His screams echo long after he became silent.

. .

Strong hands pull him up.

.

"Take my hand, son. It's going to be okay. I will protect you."  
(Protect you, protect you, protect you.)

.

As he surfaces from the dark, there is sunlight all around him. The child blinks against the light, as if he's staring right into the sun. There are bruises on his back, cuts with fresh blood on his arms, scrapes on his knees. His arm falls in a weird angle. He's hurting.

(Hurting, hurting, hurting.)

.

The child has a father, named Thomas, strong and protective, untouchable and eternal. He cradles the child in his arms. Protects.

.

Soft hands caress his hair, play with dark locks, black like their wings.

.

"Bruce, sweetie, promise me to be more careful."  
(Careful, careful, careful.)

.

The child has a mother, named Martha, gentle and beautiful, soft and caring. She cradles the child in her arms. Loves.

.

Skilful hands take care of the wounds the bats have left.

.

"Now, Master Bruce, this might hurt a little. But even so, I'm sure you can endure it."  
(Endure, endure, endure.)

.

The child has a butler, named Alfred, old and friendly, wise and indestructible. He brushes his hand over his dark hair and looks after his injuries. Heals.

. .

His father asks him questions he knows are important, but he has no answers for. He listens instead.

.

"Bruce, why do we fall?"  
(Fall, fall, fall.)

.

The child wonders.

.

"So we can learn to pick ourselves up."

.

He nods. Remembers the lesson.

.

He might be a fragile, weak coward, but his father is brave.

. .

He's still scared of bats. He still dreams about their shrieking, about sharp claws going right through his flesh, perhaps right through his bones. He cries and shouts and yells and weeps.

.

But it's okay. That's okay. Because every time he wakes up in the midst of darkness, someone (his mother, his father, Alfred) will come and sit with him. Make the scary dreams go away. Stay with him all night, so that when he wakes up all that remains is someone who loves him.

.

It's okay for him to be scared, because he is only a child.

.

Someone's child.

. .

"Do you see this city, Bruce? Do you _see _Gotham?"

.

The child watches. Narrows his eyes, blue as a fairytale sky in a country far, far away. There are buildings, high and ominous. There are dark alleys and caves with bats. There is a dark sky that scares the moon, ousting the stars. He sees shadows and people with quick steps, almost running. He doesn't look away as the car he sits in passes the world by. Takes it all in. Swallows. Feels his heart race.

.

"Does it make you feel afraid?"  
(Afraid, afraid, afraid.)

.

His voice, gentle, impartial. But Bruce is a big boy. He shakes his head, hands shaking too.

.

"It scares me sometimes. But, you see, Bruce, we must never forget that we can change this. We can be stronger than our fears. We can surpass them and turn them into something great. Do you understand that, Bruce?"

.

"Yes, I do, father."  
(Father, father, father.)

.

But someone like his father can never be scared. There is nothing that can harm him, in his god-like grace. There is no shadow that can hide his devotion for this city. There are no bats flying around in his head.

.

"One day, I shall make this city one to be remembered. Something beautiful. I promise."  
(I promise, promise, promise.)

.

Bruce nods, staring at the darkness outside. Believes. This city is rotten, he hears people say, but his father will repair it from its roots. This city is theirs and it's not beyond saving as long as someone cares enough about it to try. He stares at the city passing by and doesn't look away, feels his fathers gaze on his back, a safety like burning.

. .

The news reporter doesn't look sad as he speaks of death. He stares through the screen, right through, it seems, his lips moving and telling horrible tales, but his eyes don't react. He doesn't care, Bruce knows. He wonders if he did, once.

.

There are so many deaths in Gotham, it's impossible to care for every single one. It's impossible to care at all.

.

He feels Alfred's hand around his and he wonders if his hands will grow that large, will show that much wrinkles when he's old. Doesn't look away from the screen showing dead people, red fluids, screaming, yelling, faces with cold eyes. Can't look away. He feels sick.

.

"It's okay, Alfred. He needs to see this too. He mustn't be raised to be oblivious to pain."  
(Pain, pain, pain.)

.

His father's eyes filled with something feisty, something that burns and burns, something that makes him look like someone else entirely.

.

"Very well, sir."

.

The words he says are correct, but Bruce can tell Alfred doesn't like it. Would much rather have him raised to be oblivious to pain. Pain, he wonders, what pain? Pain such as falling into wells and being attacked by bats? Pain, such as scraping his knees? Or pain, pain such as on his TV screen, such as telling a tale without blinking? He doesn't know which is worse.

.

"Daddy, is it a scary thing? Death? To die?"  
(To die, die, die.)

.

His father laughs, but the sound isn't right. Places his hand on his shoulder, pulls him close.

.

"Ah. What a question. Well, as a wise man once said: 'death does not concern us, for as long as we exist, death is not here. And when it does come: we no longer exist.' I care for life Bruce, not for death."

.

"I understand."

.

But he does not. He knows. The smile on his father's face tells him that is exactly what he wants.

. .

She smoothes out wrinkles that wouldn't dare to be present out her dress, red like fire and autumn leafs. She smiles at him and turns around, the dress dancing around her ankles.

.

"How do I look, Bruce?"

.

"Really beautiful."  
(Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful.)

.

She possesses a beauty that no rotten city can taunt. Her voice is soft and every word she says sounds like a song, so easily drowning out the sound of shrieking bats. She possesses a beauty far beyond the definition of the word, a grace in everything she does, an outspoken gentleness.

.

"Mum."

.

"Yes, sweetheart?"

.

"Will I ever be as beautiful as you?"

.

She laughs, drops to her knees, strokes his thick, black hair. Her teeth white as snow, her skin tanned by a sun that never shines. Her eyes glowing, a warmth all by itself. He doesn't dare to look her in the eye, drops his eyes to the pearl necklace her dad gave her. The pearls outshone by her own beauty.

.

"Oh, Bruce. You are only as beautiful as your heart is pure. And your heart, my son, is the purest of them all. Don't you forget."  
(Forget, forget, forget.)

. .

Inside the darkness of an alley, a fragile child fears. He fears shadows and bats. He fears memories and he fears the loneliness of that dark cave. He fears death and television screens that flicker in the night. He fears the ground falling underneath his feet and falling. He fears. He fears, without knowing why.

.

But his father has his hand clasped around his bravely. His mother has her ringed fingers on his hair. There is nothing to fear. He has his mummy and his daddy. Their touching like safety. Reassurance. Love.

.

There is a man in the alley, too. There is a man who looks as if he hasn't eaten properly for months. He stumbles towards them, doesn't even walk straight. He smells like rubbish, like rotten food, like the gutters around them.

.

The man has a gun. A gun he points at the boy's father.

.

The man has a desperate voice. A voice screaming. Screaming like bats.

.

"Wallet and jewellery. Now!"

.

The child clings to his father's leg. His father will save him from the man. Protect. His mothers hand around his, shaking now. His world, shaking now.

.

The gunshot is loud and sharp.

.

And then there is blood.

.

Her screaming is high and desperate.

.

And then there is blood.

.

The gunshots echo against the walls.

.

And then there is blood.

.

The man aims the gun at the Bruce's face. Aims right between the eyes. Stares into blue eyes faded grey, blurred with tears.

.

He doesn't pull the trigger. Just runs instead. Leaves the child alone.

.

How ugly Mum is. How tainted in her beauty, how ungraceful in her fall. Her dress splayed around her. How red it looks. Red like blood, all around her. Tainting her pearls and her hair. Her eyes are cold and lifeless. Bruce doesn't want to recognise her.

.

How weak Daddy is. Unable to protect, unable to save. How black his suit looks, black like the streets, the night all around them. How useless his life was, now his death finally came. Bruce doesn't want to recognise this moment for what it is.

.

"Mummy! Daddy! Don't leave me!"  
(Leave me, leave me, leave me.)

.

Don't leave me, leave me, leave me, the walls echo coldly.

.

His heart stops beating at the same time his echoes subside.

. .

Voices then. Screaming commands.

.

Hands too. Trying to pull him away from his mum and his dad.

.

He doesn't let go. He can't let go.

.

He clutches to his father's coat, grabs his mother's pearls, sprawled all across the street, hides his face in her dress. It's all he has left. How cold her skin is, how cold his heart is, how cold the night is.

.

Someone grabs his arm and pulls him away.

.

He screams.

.

No one listens.

. .

After that day, Mum and Dad don't come home anymore.

.

After that day, the child is no longer a child.

.

After that day, he understands.

. .

He is all alone in a house that is big enough to get lost in. It's just a building, with endless, empty hallways, leading to huge, empty rooms. So he lingers there, in the doorway of a shattered memory, coloured with blood. The room his parents once slept in is now empty and empty it will remain forever.

.

He looks trough the window and stares at an empty sky.

.

Alfred stands by his side, a hand on his shoulder. It's nothing like his father's. It doesn't make him feel safe. Nothing is safe. He clings to his leg, closes his eyes, pretends to smell different cologne and to be in a different world.

. .

The boy stares at the people dressed in black. Holds Alfred's hand tight. Doesn't know whether he wants to cry or run. Or scream. Or stay. The boy stares at the people passing by, throwing him glances, smiles that aren't right, pat him on his head, crouch down before him. Lets their words flow over him, wild and painful like a storm. Stays. Stays forever, always.

.

"Oh, poor boy! It wasn't supposed to go like this."

.

The women talk with high voices. Talk about compassion.

.

"We'll take care of the empire, boy. We'll guard it for you until you're all grown up."

.

The men talk with low voices. Talk about business.

.

He knows they're all lying. He knows they stare right past him, right through his sorrow, his guilt, right through everything he is. He knows all he is, is a remainder of a great name, a weak replica of a great man.

.

The boy squeezes the old man's hand tighter and doesn't want to let go. Doesn't want to be.

. .

The boy has lost. Is lost. Thus he searches.

.

The boy is stuck. Cornered. Thus he runs.

.

He runs to the far edges of the world. Leaves behind all he has known. Carries his fears with him, to mountain tops, to park benches, to battle fields. Wonders why he can't bury them. Six feet under. Right between the graves of his mother and his father.

.

A boy like Bruce Wayne has many ways out, he supposes. Ways that don't involve extra pain. Added anguish. He prays he never has to find out about them.

.

But he is no longer Bruce Wayne. He is the boy who couldn't save his parents. He is the one to blame. He is nothing but a coward. Nothing but a boy. Nothing. No one at all. Another victim in an endless war.

.

He makes himself suffer. Wonders how many screams he has to hear to drown the sound of gunshots. Wonders how many nightmares he must wake up from, screaming, crying, dying, to get used to them. Wonders if the heavy feeling in his chest will ever go away.

.

He becomes the boy without a purpose. Tries to understand his fear for those men, those criminals. Those men who smell like shit and have guns. Disgusts himself. Tries to understand how one could think it was worth it. Three lives ruined, for a few bucks and a handful of pearls.

.

He hates himself more with each meaningless breath he takes.

.

He learns how to steal so he won't starve. Learns how to break people's ribs. Learns how to become someone else entirely. Learns endlessly, but it's never enough. No one has an answer for even some of the questions he holds.

.

He sleeps on the ground. Forgets what it's like to smile. Forgets what a soft bed feels like. He forgets the taste of Alfred's cranberry cookies with chocolate. He forgets the smell of perfume, the colour of summer dresses. He forgets about strong hands, dreams of a better world.

.

He never forgets the sound of gunshots. The sound of bats. The sound of his screaming, echoing in the dark alley. The smell of blood. Empty eyes, the coldness of death. He never forgets who is to blame for this.

.

In his head, they are still dying. In his head, the gunshots echo. In his head, bats are flying around, shrieking in hysterical panic.

.

(Daddy. I don't want to be alone, alone, alone.)

.

And it doesn't matter how many broken yesterdays he lives through, how many meaningless tomorrows he counts, the loneliness never leaves.

. .

He takes in the pain of others. Memorises the screams of his patients. Watches the brutality of men. Sees right through the white lies, white powdered noses of pretty women, right through the very core. Human kind is so ugly, he thinks to himself. So disgusting he can't even feel sick. So horrifying he doesn't feel scared.

.

He is so sick of feeling anything at all.

.

They don't sedate people here. All they do is hold them down. All they do is mouth the words Bruce hates so much. He says them the loudest.

.

"You're going to be okay."

.

But they won't. They never will be. The scars will never fade and the pain will be excruciating. He lies so easily. He takes the scalpel and cuts through human flesh with ease. Memorises the screams. Stitches people up. Fixes them. Watches them die on that table or leave to find a place to sleep between ruins.

.

None of them ever thank him.

.

He has blood on his hands, but he forgot to whom it belonged. He has blood on his face, blood all around him. There is so much blood. The stains won't go away.

. .

One night, he watches how a woman is attacked by three men. They rip off her clothes. They beat her and laugh. They beat her until her blood splatters on the wall. Then they hold her down. Touch her. Touch her everywhere. They all do. One by one.

.

They take everything she has left in her crumbled down reality.

.

"Help! Help me! Please!"  
(Please, please, please.)

.

He watches how they leave her for death. He emerges from the shadows, reaches her a hand.

.

"It is okay now. I'm a doctor. I'll take you to the hospital. I'll fix you."  
(Fix you, fix you, fix you.)

.

She doesn't take his hand. Looks up.

.

"You're too late. Why don't you just leave?"  
(Leave, leave, leave.)

.

"Because if I do, you'll die."

.

There is nothing in her eyes. Nothing but the reflection of his own.

.

"Yes. That's exactly what I want."  
(What I want, want, want.)

.

He sits by her side and waits until she gives up. Waits until all the blood has gushed out of her body. Until it colours the streets, colours his hands, colours his world. Waits until her eyes become hollow, until her heart gives up beating. Waits until the warmth of her skin starts slipping away.

.

He doesn't wait long.

. .

One night, he watches how children cry. They have all lost their parents, watched them die. They sit huddled together as the rain pours down upon them, their knees bend, heads resting on each others shoulder. Some of them still cry. Most of them just stare ahead of them, into a distant past where all was well.

.

They too, simply wait for death.

.

He wants so badly to be like them. He wants and he needsto simply give up. Lay his head down and die. To let all the sorrow, all the hurt, all the echoes subside in his head until nothing but absolute silence remains, until the darkness is parted by a bright light and then he will follow, follow it to wherever it leads because he needs to get out of himself, to get out of this world, to be _free _and differentand most of all not him_. _

.

But. He can't_. _He doesn't understand.

.

He prays all night among them, to a god he knows isn't there. He prays, he wishes, he sleeps, he watches them fall like flies around him. The kids don't bury each other. They let them rot in the burning sun, freeze under its absence. When someone else finds the strength to bother, they ignore them.

.

He stops eating. He starts being like them. He tries, tries so hard. Tries his hardest to give up and die_. _Like his father, like his mother, like the girls, like the boys. Like the parents, like the children. Like humans should. He becomes a ghost in a shell, existing but nothing near being alive. Through the darkness, he waits for the light. Waits and waits and waits and never sees.

.

He thinks about Alfred. How alive he remains, how alone he is in a huge house filled with ghosts around every corner, with memories in every empty room, with attics full of ghosts that never leave. He thinks about how strong he is, how he holds on, how he held his hand at the funeral, how much he must've loved him. Love. Like his father, like his mother.

.

He thinks about his father and his words. His aspirations, his dreams, his goals, his greatness, his love_. _How he spoke about fears, how they could be turned into something beautiful. How he held on, when everyone else told him to stop dreaming, to stop being a stupid idealist,because that could killhim.

.

He thinks about his mother. How she would tell him to be strong after his nightmares, how she would endure the looks of men who thought nothing of her. How she would dance to slow rhythms only she could hear in the dark. How she would laugh, how beautiful she was and how he doesn't want to forget that.

.

How he can never forget that. Because those memories are all that is leftof them, of her beauty, of his strength. And perhaps, it is perfectly possible and acceptable to warm oneself with embers of a once glorious fire. Perhaps he can scramble the corners of his worn down blanket together and wrap it around himself.

.

He understands.

.

This guilt, this sorrow and this loss is all he has. And he won't give it away so easily. He won't let go. He won't follow the light, because the darkness holds – at the very least – echoes of days where he was somebody who was loved. Echoes of brighter days, echoes of reassuring voices, echoes of lullabies and soft laughter.

.

Simple as that, except it never is, except it is impossible in all its justice, Bruce Wayne makes a decision. Stands up and walks away from dying children, from lands ripped apart by blood, by bullets spilled just as easily as tears. He walks and he walks and he walks.

.

He will continue in the footsteps set before him. Live out the dream. The dream of turning Gotham into something beautiful. He studies and learns and trains, becomes the best in every possible way.

.

Reaches the hollowest of perfection.

. .

He returns. In a sense where he doesn't, but all the same he does and Alfred's right there in the doorway of his memory-filled house and the smile on his face is still exactly the same as if nothing changed and he smiles back, knowing it isn't anything like the smile the innocent kid he once was had, but it's a smile nonetheless.

.

It's a start. A beginning. The first step.

.

"This city has become even darker during your absence, I'm afraid, Master Bruce."

.

"But I'm back, Alfred. And I shall complete the work my father has started. I shall make this city beautiful. But I can't do that as Bruce Wayne."

.

"Then, if I may ask, how will you do it Master Bruce?"

.

"By becoming something far greater than a man ever could be. A _concept. _A symbol."

.

Alfred doesn't laugh. Alfred can tell. Can tell he's not joking at all. Can tell he hasn't lost his mind any more than he already had. And then he does what Alfred does best, perhaps the only course of action he could possiblytake.

.

He supports. He enables.

. .

In the hollow aftermath of a gunshot, long after the echoes have subsided even though they never do, a child remains alone and cold as blood reaches for his feet. The child will remain there forever. But from his ashes, from his helpless, soundlessechoes _he_ emerges.

.

And so he becomes.  
(Becomes, becomes, becomes.)

. .

He shall do everything he cannot possible achieve. He shall become everything he cannot possible be. He shall shine a little light upon this dark city.

.

"Did you know? Did you know bats locate themselves by their echoes?"  
(Echo, echo, echo.)

.

He descends. Relates. Becomes. Creates. Let the darkness swallow him, swallow him whole. The bats shriek and flap their leather wings, locate him by their echoes and he does exactly the same. The whole cave is one loud echo and he doesn't flinch. He stands tall and brave and the fear disturbs him not. He shudders, but he does not falter. He stays. He stays forever, bound by the sound of his echoes. And the bats accept.

. .

There are two worlds now.

.

There is the Above, where Bruce Wayne lives in a Manor, where he has an easy smile, where there are pretty women and where he powders his face with lies, swallows dishonesty like water, dances and dances and smiles and laughs and all is fun, all is well, all is charity and balls and flashy lights and where he is _happy. _

.

There is also Under, where Batman lives in a Cave, full of bats. He fears them just as badly as he doesn't. He _is_ fear. Spreads it like a contagious epidemic. His name is a whisper on the lips of every thug in the city, a snort in the back of every cynic's throat, a difference in this world. An echo in dark alleys.

. .

"Who are you?"

.

And after the scream's echo subsided, he smirks, a gesture that has nothing to do with the question and uncertainty, but everything with the answer and the certainty behind it because now he _knows. _

.

"I am Batman."

.

.

.

**Author's note: **Okay, so this is very heavily inspired by Batman: Gotham Knight. If you haven't seen it yet, go watch it now. And I am absolutely serious, go watch it. It's so beautiful and emotional, it's great. It gives a whole new look into Bruce's character. So yes, this was basically a very long character study on our dear Bruce Wayne. Hope I didn't bore anyone XD

If you don't care for my reasoning behind this, feel free to skip the next few paragraphs. **Please do review. **I put a lot of thought and effort in this story, it would be amazingly awesome if you took a few seconds to comment on it. **I changed the category of this story to make it fit better. I'm sorry if you already read it and now read it again. **_  
_

**I also do apologise to you, Rae. I don't know if you got my mail, but I got so frustrated with it being in my file without being published, I published it unbeta'd. Sorry.****  
**

So, my reasoning. It all started when watching Batman: Gotham Knight and more precisely the part 'Working Through Pain'. Basically, it's about Bruce getting severely injured and thinking back about Cassandra, a fakir ish woman who taught him to cope with pain. It's beautiful (and Cassandra is so pretty I want to ship her and Bruce together if he didn't belong to Wally) and painful at the same time. Again, watch it. It was really interesting, especially near the ending. Cassandra tells Bruce that she cannot help him cope with his pain, because that sorrow is exactly what he wants, what he needs to be _someone. _Take away his scars and there is nothing left.  
And then there is this whole thing about bats locating themselves with their echoes. I mean. How fitting is _that? _In a sense, Bruce does exactly the same. He is Batman because of the echoes of his past, those 'echoes' tell him where to be. I know it might be stupid, but it struck me and I couldn't get it out of my head anymore. Suffice to say, this was the main theme of the story, hence the title (echolocation is the term for 'locating oneself by its echoes', pretty logical XD). Though I do not know if I got my point across, I really hope I did. What fascinates me about Bruce is the way he actually searches for pain, like a moth drawn to a flame. Someone like Bruce Wayne has many ways out, but he became Batman, deals with even more pain and death every day. Because of his 'echoes'. It's poetic, people, it is!

And I didn't really know what Bruce's parents were like, so I used my imagination. But I always imagine them like this, I hope I did them justice.

- Jazy


End file.
